


All That Fall

by kolosundil



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Bad Beginning, Bad Ending, I'm actually a very jolly person you know, Implied Character Death, M/M, Rape, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Triggers, Violence, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolosundil/pseuds/kolosundil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It need not have been Horus. But for Erebus, there will never be anyone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Fall

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: All my feels in fic form. Title is shamelessly stolen by Samuel Beckett. Words are shamelessly stolen from the English language. I would like to thank my very own brightest star, who you might know by mariusgaaazzh. Thank you my lord, for actually tolerating all this and encouraging me and threatening to kill me, occassionally.

"Warmaster..."  The sigh left his lips, as he grasped onto red, bloodstained sheets. He pressed his forehead against the mattress, lips parted in mindless ecstasy, the muscles of his back bulging with every thrust of the man- no, the Primarch - behind him.

His face, his back, his chest, every inch of him was covered in red, the blessed substance burning against his rough skin, staining connection ports, making them gleam. Horus' hands spread the blood over his body, as they grasped at his hips, his sides, his chest, sliding back and forth with every thrust he gave. Erebus could nearly taste the desperation in his movements. Horus' eyes glowed with unholy energies, energies that Erebus himself had imbued him with.

He didn't know how much time had passed, since he'd entered the room, with Horus lying back on the white, pristine sheets. He remembered the anticipation in his eyes. It had been some time after Davin, when he had first proposed such a ritual, and Horus had taken his own time approving it. The Warmaster didn't trust him, not in the traditional fashion. But he believed him. He put credit in his words, because... Why would Erebus lie to _him_?

No matter what a grave misunderstanding of the Astartes that was, Horus was correct that Erebus didn't lie to him. He merely concealed the more uncomfortable truths. Like, what this ritual would do to him, apart from gifting him with the power and the presence of the Immaterium.

"Please, relax," he had said, as he climbed on the bed, over him, setting a stone bowl of blood right next to him, dipping his thumb in. He began to draw, circles, stars, symbols Horus didn't know. With more care, finer print, he wrote, entire lines that covered the Primarch's stomach.

It wasn't comfortable enough. He slid up, robes pooling around him as he straddled the Warmaster's hips. He felt Horus shiver beneath him, and had to stop himself from grinding down. The sensation of power filled him, potent in its corruption, yet he continued his work, seemingly unaffected.

"Is it supposed to burn?" asked Horus, conversationally, but there is strain in his voice. Erebus doesn't pause in his chant, a quiet, continuous murmur at the back of Horus' mind.

"Yes," Erebus answered. He restrained himself from leaning down and ruining all that he’d written on the Warmaster, going on with his work instead. He licked his lips, and went on with the chant.

Horus swam into a strange, intoxicated state of bliss, something he had never before experienced. There was an undeniable spirituality about it. In the secular Imperium of science and reason, there was no room for spirits, for divinities and the supernatural. And yet, here they were. His whole body felt light, senses more acute than ever, the entire world simultaneously in and out of focus. Reality shifted at the edges of his vision. He laughed, nothing but a low rumble. It felt so good, to take this power.

He was conscious of everything around him, like his entire life had been a blur, and just now, it came into focus. The low lights in the room were blinding, the sheets were soft, the smell of blood filled his nostrils, his tongue twitched with the copper taste in the air, and… And Erebus was against him, emitting body heat, shadows following him as he moved, the script on his forehead shifting- or was it just him..? He could not be sure. Erebus’ voice filled his mind, his thighs pressed against his sides, his fingers-

And his words. That soft voice, digging right through his layers of restraint, of decency, of civility, speaking right to the bloodthirsty, warmongering monster at the core of his existence. It hadn’t been Erebus, that made Horus fall. He had merely… facilitated the process. And Horus had never fallen. He evolved, shedding away the cocoon his father had created for him. The prison of morality that he had been so comfortable within.

The truth was in blood. The truth was in violence. It had always been there, right before his eyes, yet he denied it. He clung to light. To beauty, as his father saw it.

His eyes focused on the form above him. The pose was familiar, but the man was not. Smaller, but gifted with wide shoulders, tension in his muscles visible. Wingless. Dark. There was nothing ethereal about Erebus. Everything about him was dry, grounded, tangible. The Chaplain made the world seem more real around him, where his brother caused it to fade out. Sanguinius was the sun, where Erebus… He was the cold, eternal blackness of space, the stink of earth waiting to consume everything before the end.

He shivered. Black soulless eyes, in contrast to blue ones with an infinite capacity for kindness, stared down at him. “Warmaster..?”

Horus took in a deep breath. “Yes?” His voice was rough, nearly inaudible, laced with barely concealed desire.

The Chaplain pushed down, gently, before dipping his fingers in the blood, and leaning over the Primarch, to draw on his forehead, over his eyelids, nose and cheeks, drops falling to the mattress, staining it, red onto white. He got off, and stood up. “Please. Come see,” he whispered.

Horus stood up, slowly, to his full height, blood dripping off the designs, down the curves of his muscles, staining tan, loose trousers, making a crimson belt around his hips. He was led to a mirror, and Erebus turned away, letting him savor his reflection.

Red. So much of it, Horus thought. His green eyes were striking, against his painted face, his torso covered in it and glistening. The shapes made his stomach turn. Was this what he had signed himself in for? All this blood..?

Erebus, as if by sorcery, seemed to catch on to his thoughts, and asked. “How does it feel, Warmaster?”

All this blood… And what of it? Merely because it would be the blood of his brothers? Of his own father? Did it make it any less worthy than of a nameless rebel? Erebus said it did not. That to his Gods, all blood was acceptable, no matter who it came from. Horus was committing a crime. That he knew, and he had known ever since he had murdered the humans on his own ship. But had he not committed other crimes? Had he not slaughtered population upon population? Species upon species?

Now… Now he could commit atrocity in his own name. The faintest of smiles played on his lips, for a brief moment. “Good.”

“Should I go on, then?” Erebus said, in that same tone that had first made Horus notice his existence. He marveled at this… Weapon of a person. So finely tuned, created only to bring chaos. Chaos. He heard that word so often, lately.

And Horus wanted that weapon in his palm, wanted to point it wherever he wished. “You may.”

He led him back to the bed, and made him sit down. Then, he sat on his knees behind him, pressing forward gently, his robes rustling against Horus’ skin. He whispered, more of the strange language that Horus can’t read or understand, and yet it made him shudder in anticipation. Erebus drew on his back, just as he did on his chest. If Horus was any less than a primarch, he would have never noticed the other’s breath picking up, the strain in his movements, the tremble in his voice.

Horus sympathized with it, but he waited. He waited for him to finish his work, for without this, without the ritual, without the process, it was all empty. He leaned forward, giving him more access. His back trembled, the blood burning against his skin, warmth spreading through him to the bone. Unimaginable though it was, he was fighting so hard to control himself, that he lost track of his surroundings. Only when he heard a voice right against his ear, did he realise where he was. “..Warmaster..?”

“Yes..?” he whispered back, perfect lips parted, bloodied. The next thing he felt was skin against his own, arms slowly wrapping around his neck.

“It is done,” Erebus said, almost reassuringly, and that was all the Primarch needed to hear, before he turned around, and grabbed him by the waist. The Chaplain sighed, his robes opened, and his torso smudged with blood. “Wait,” he stopped him, with difficulty, forgetting to add the title, but Horus did not seem to notice, or to care.

He lifted the bowl with both hands, and smiled. Horus watched him, the expression burning an image to his mind. Erebus upended the bowl over the Primarch’s head, and watched, as his writing was slowly obscured, inch by inch of skin covered by rich streams of red. Horus threw his head back, letting the last drops drip onto his neck, lips parting to swallow.

Erebus watched, for a few more precious moments, as the blood trickled down the sculpted muscles, flattened against them, before closing the distance, dry lips in need of the Primarch’s. Compliance is instant, and he was grabbed by the waist in the most powerful, secure grip a mortal being could possibly have. Horus pushed him back to the mattress forcefully, and Erebus attached himself to his shoulders, hands dyed red with the blood, lips seeking the Primarch’s, frantic, like a cornered animal attacking. Horus was not any subtler, his kiss like everything about him, overpowering… Magnificent. The copper on their tastebuds is overwhelming, and Erebus could see the lives of the men the blood belonged to as he swallowed.

Loyalty... Betrayal… Pain… Sacrifice. It only served to arouse him more, blood the only lubricant between him and the Primarch, heat, heat, pressure, friction, nerves misfiring- He moaned, out loud, unrestrained, for once drunk with the sensation of the Primarch on him, with him, against him, and not with the thrill of power over him. His tired eyes closed, as lips headed for the Primarch’s neck.

Horus hissed, his father’s veil torn from his eyes. This was what it was to be alive. Warm, burning, drenched in blood, hearts pounding within your chest, no control, no one to live up to, nothing but that solid explosion of pleasure, and violence, decay and unpredictability. Erebus’ body was spread below him, willing, ready to be taken, the blood staining into the crisp white sheets. Horus saw nothing but red, endless red, the fire rising inside him. Everything would burn, and within the fires he’d be able to touch this mindless awareness again.

He took him, again, and again, and again, bodies writhing together, muscles bulging, tightening beneath skin. Sweat and saliva mixed with blood, they slid against each other, ignoring everything around them. The bed’s headboard shattered with the grip, blood had already seeped into the mattress, ruining it for good. Erebus screamed, long, and loud, not caring in the slightest about being heard. Horus was his to play with. He didn’t mind everyone on the ship knowing it.

Horus was lost. Lost in the feeling, sinking in the unknown, new madness. He felt full, bursting with inner strength that he had not been aware of before. They kissed, desperately. The taste of copper had long since faded from their tastebuds. Lips crushed together, low whines of pleasure- or was it pain…? Both excited Horus equally- leaving Erebus’ mouth. They had done this before, but it had never been as intense. As… meaningful. The very morning after they were finished, a world would burn in Horus’ name. The first world. Isstvan III. Erebus had helped him design this campaign, as much as he had been allowed to.

 

When they were both finally finished, exhausted beyond measure, Erebus more than certain that he wouldn’t be able to walk without hurting in weeks, he allowed Horus to lay on top of him, almost crushing him. And for the first time in years, Erebus smiled.

 

* * *

 

They have another meeting in blood. Another meeting, to forge both anew.

This time, Erebus is silent, but for low grunts of pain, and occasional escapes of ragged breath. This time, it’s his own blood that covers them both. Red, raw, bleeding externally and internally.

Horus establishes himself as the next Master of Mankind. He is the Warmaster, not the powers that guide Erebus. He commands, not the Gods. And for a single moment, what seemed ages ago, Erebus had wished for nothing but that.

The pain blooms on every inch of his body. His skin is gone. He stares ahead of him with lidless, bloodshot eyes, lips gone, only teeth in their place. His hand is bionic, and the metal clutches onto the floor, digging small holes into it.

And yet, he does not scream. He would rather die, than give that up. His control, his control would never leave him, no matter what they do to him.

Horus fucks the flayed, hideous body with all his strength. To his dissatisfaction, Erebus takes it, wordlessly. He lies still and he allows Horus to take all he wants, to be appeased, Horus ruptures internal organs with the force, there is just as much bleeding within as there is without, but he is completely unresponsive. The Warmaster can feel his failure, and it enrages him further.

Erebus will never be his weapon. He will always belong to Them, and Horus is afraid. Afraid of how close he is to succumbing to Them as well. But he will not. He… is… his own… man.

“This is a lesson, Erebus,” he says, nearly tenderly, in contrast to his actions.

“I’m sorry, Warmaster,” he answers, voice a broken whisper, as the Primarch pulls out, only to slam back inside at the words, a slap cracking against the side of his face. Erebus feels the muscles of his neck pull. Horus sees them. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Forgive me, Warmaster..”

Forgive me, for I can never do what you ask of me. He doesn’t say it. He values his life too much. The Gods will provide, for both of them. Horus has all their blessings and yet he challenges them.

And if he goes on doing so, then he will die. Erebus knows that. He has seen ten thousand futures, possibilities spreading like a net, and now… Now, so many possibilities closed to them, as they were shoved down one of the pathways.

If Erebus hates something, it is to be robbed of possibility.

He grinds his teeth together, and waits. Waits for Horus to be finished with him. To be bored of trying to break him. One’s patience will give in first, and Horus is not known for his.

Once more, he burns. Horus makes his broken, dying form writhe with raw… sentiment. He despises the word, yet it rings true. He hates him, with unquenchable passion. He hates him for all his insolence, all his egoism, all the potential he holds, and will never realize.

Horus hates Erebus equally, for pursuing things on his own. He hates him because he doesn’t live for him alone. He hates his disobedience, and his ego, and that even here, flayed alive, beaten to within an inch of his life, raped mercilessly, he doesn’t break. He only seems to… retreat.

Horus waits for him to hit a dead end, for the limit of that abyssal willpower.

Erebus does not.

He pulls out, and away from him, unsatisfied in every way. “Get him back in his armor,” he says, voice low and gruff, not sparing a glance at the twitching form.

Erebus feels the corners of his mouth, now raw muscle, pull upwards. It’s a parody of a smile, indistinguishable from any other expression, but he knows it is there.

He, uncharacteristically, cannot pinpoint the reason for it.

Triumph…?

Relief…?

 

_Understanding?_

As he is pushed  to his feet forcefully, his armor fitted back onto his body, locked into connection points, a low, hissing sound starts at the back of his throat.

_How could he?_

How could he ever think that they were anything more but weapons…?

 

* * *

 

“Warmaster,” he will say, and bow his head respectfully. The word shall feel empty on his lips, dirty, as it is directed to Ezekyle Abaddon.

A title taken by force, only to fill the gap his predecessor had left. Only, to Erebus, there will be no such question. Abaddon will always be a man within the shadow of a giant. His title is going to be there only to reinforce that.

Yet, he bows for him.

He will bow, as he bowed for Horus. He will flatter, as he flattered Horus. He will submit, as he did to Horus. He will give his blessing, as he gave it to Horus.

But he will never burn.

Not like he did for Horus.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to all of you for reading this entire thing.


End file.
